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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24303364">you try to save me; from all the way across town</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_boye/pseuds/space_boye'>space_boye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who &amp; Related Fandoms, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst, Drinking, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Not Beta Read, Other, Post-Regeneration (Doctor Who), Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, The Doctor (Doctor Who) is a Mess, angst for the sake of angst, you might get a teeny bit of comfort later but no promises</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:40:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24303364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_boye/pseuds/space_boye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Classical piano music swam through the air of the TARDIS, and it felt all too wrong.<br/>His head. Him. </i>
</p>
<p>Angsty pile of feelings and "character exploration". basically just angst for the sake of angst because i have feelings that need to go SOMEWHERE.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. avoiding your own face is easier said than done</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Classical piano music swam through the air of the TARDIS, and it felt all too wrong.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor clicked off the music and was left with only the low thrumming ambiance of the ship. That too, was horribly wrong. He paced back and forth by the console, ignoring the quiet inquiries of his ship, and the constant torrent of thoughts rushing through his brain, fading away into incoherent ripples and waves before they ever reached the surface. Everything was far too quiet and far too loud at the same time, and his head was spinning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His head. Him. The Doctor hadn’t looked in a mirror since he’d regenerated, and he dreaded what he might see. He was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it wasn’t the kind of tiredness you’d expect after regeneration, not even the kind of exhaustion you’d have after not sleeping for three days straight, which he may or may not have done. Too many things to do, too many thoughts to think, none of them connecting or making any amount of sense.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh ffff— Will you be </span>
  <em>
    <span>QUIET?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He whipped around, shouting at the console. The TARDIS let out a warble of concern but obliged, the humming of the ship quieting. The Doctor massaged his temples. God, his head was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pounding, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it probably wasn’t helped by his seemingly newfound habit of grinding his teeth while stressed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knew who he was, maybe. Something nagging in him, a voice that sounded far more familiar than he’d have liked, was mocking him. He was the Doctor. He was supposed to be out helping people and saving planets and whatever-bloody-else heroes do. Instead he was wallowing, stuck of his own volition, because he didn’t want to go back out there, because he didn’t want to go back and be reminded of those he had lost. All of their deaths, they were all his fault. That’s always how it seemed to work out for him. He blamed himself for every single one, regretted everything he had done to cause them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Every death, even the death of his so-called enemy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They were enemies, obviously. No half-decent man could be friends with someone that twisted and convoluted, someone seeking only for control and destruction. An absolute madman, he was called. The ultimate product of abandonment and manipulation, of a corrupt society he found no solace in. Perhaps the Doctor could be blamed for that descent into madness as well. They were friends, once. They were each other's solace, dreaming of one day escaping and seeing every star together. They were young and naive, fools enough to make the empty promise of ‘always’ and ‘forever’. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their promises didn’t even last the millennium. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor stood up. He hadn’t realized he had been sitting in the first place, too lost in his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“At least take a shower, you wallowing fool.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There it was, the nagging in the back of his mind again, sounding distinctly like his old friend and enemy. Of course that would be the false voice he was plagued with, a permanent reminder of his mistakes. Perhaps he truly was going mad, barely bothered by imagined voices. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>take a shower, anyhow. He wandered down a random corridor of the TARDIS without any sense of direction, hoping she would lead him to some sort of bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The TARDIS did, thankfully, lead him to a bathroom, and the Doctor stepped inside and shut the door, though there wasn’t anyone around to wander in on him anyway. He made a point not to look at the mirror hanging over the sink as he undressed, his old clothes tossed haphazardly in the corner. That worn waistcoat wasn’t really his anymore. It had belonged to a man he no longer was. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The water ran fast and hot, stinging the Doctor’s skin. He closed his eyes and focused on the pounding of the water in his skull, the steam pushing back all his thoughts. His headache had lessened, a little at least. He willfully didn’t pay attention to how long he stood there, eyes closed with the water pinking his shoulders and back, despite every nerve in his Time Lord body telling him to stop drifting and grab hold of the seconds like he was supposedly made to do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he stepped out of the shower an undefined time later, he did catch his reflection in the mirror, a weary shell of a man wrapped in a towel, staring back at him. He stepped towards the sink, placing a hand on his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘Oh my…” he murmured. His lack of self-care was evident, with his sharp cheekbones showing unnaturally, and his eyes gaunt and underlined in shadow. His skin would have been frightfully pale if it weren’t for the heat of the shower giving it a slightly pinker hue, and his damp hair was mid-length and grey, with a white streak going through either side and a slight curl at the ends. He looked like he might crumble apart, looking down at the hand that was clutching the towel around himself like it was the only thing holding him together.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he looked back up at himself, he could have sworn there was the face of his old enemy, his even older friend, standing over his shoulder. His face was stern, an indescribable look of disappointment and stillness covering it. He didn’t say a word.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then the Doctor blinked, and he was gone.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. (I say it was you, but it was always my own)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>By the time the Doctor properly acknowledged how thoroughly drunk he was, he was around four glasses in, or would have been had he opted to not drink straight from the bottle.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Graphic descriptions of self harm and also some heavy drinking ahead. You've been warned</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Fire. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Screaming. So many screams, the children. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Voices he knew. Voices he loved. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It’s your fault,” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You left me to burn,” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You could have saved me,” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Doctor woke with a start, sending the cup of tea on the end table next to him flying. He had fallen asleep in an armchair, his body not being able to put up with his reluctance to rest any longer. He still felt just as exhausted as he had before he passed out. Getting up, the Doctor bent over to pick up the shards of the now demolished tea cup off the floor of the TARDIS, when one particularly sharp piece of ceramic sliced into his hand, drawing blood. He quietly swore on reflex. It wasn’t a bad cut, really, just a bit of blood, yet the Doctor couldn’t help but stare at the red beads forming along the line.</p><p> </p><p><em> “I know what you’re thinking, you bloody fool, </em> <b> <em>don’t</em> </b> <em> ” </em></p><p> </p><p>There was his voice again, and the Doctor was even more sure that it was a hallucination. For the Master to care for him, care about what he may or may not do, would be terribly uncharacteristic of him. The actual Master would probably be reveling in the Doctor’s suffering, mocking him, goading him on. He picked up the sharp piece of ceramic again, moving it between his fingers in quiet contemplation.</p><p> </p><p>The first slice was easier than it should have been, a long, thin, bleeding line across the inside of his arm. His jaw clenched at the sharp pain, but it was so incredibly familiar, the warm feeling of blood rushing to the surface, and skin being pulled apart at the cells. He wondered how many cuts it would take before his body started to sew them shut itself.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>STOP” </em> </p><p> </p><p>This time, the Master’s voice was sharper, pained, like he genuinely <em> worried </em> . The Doctor let out a sharp exhale, and deftly made another slice below the first, deeper this time. The pain felt so <em> real </em> , so much more real than anything he had felt since he regenerated into this form, and it felt right, deserved. The Doctor laughed, harsh and broken, full of emotion he had been dissociated from. He did not notice the tears rolling down his face as the broken tea cup shard fell out from between his fingers, clattering on the ground where he kneeled laughing. How funny, that his subconscious would make him hear actual <em> care </em> in the Master’s voice! How wildly unrealistic and fanatical of him, he thought!</p><p> </p><p>The Doctor quickly decided that the rush of emotions was a bit much now, and that he would like to not think about it for a while, so he got up and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Upon opening it, he was mildly disappointed to find only a half empty bottle of ginger bourbon, having not bought anything else in a rather long time. Still, it was available, and so the Doctor grabbed it without much of a second thought and popped the cap off. He briefly considered at least grabbing a glass, but that would just be another step in the process, and it wasn’t as if anyone was around to scold him for any of this.</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>By the time the Doctor properly acknowledged how thoroughly drunk he was, he was around four glasses in, or would have been had he opted to not drink straight from the bottle. The sharp taste of the liquor sat heavy on his tongue and throat, almost metallic. His head lolled as he looked towards his sliced arm resting on the table in front of him. The blood had dried now. The Doctor nodded to nobody in particular and took another swig from the bottle. When his eyes focused, he stared at a form across the table from him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You’re pathetic.” </em></p><p> </p><p>Oh great, his hallucinations were taking proper form now, mocking him and his bottle of bourbon. The Doctor glared at the Master across from him.</p><p> </p><p>“Shhut up,” he slurred. “Why would you care?”</p><p> </p><p>The Master did not respond, only shaking his head disappointedly. He really was quite good at that.</p><p> </p><p>“Thas’ right, you don’t. You aren’t even him, he’d mock me more, ‘m sure,” The Doctor drunkenly gestured at nothing, seemingly invested in this fake, half-assed argument.</p><p> </p><p>“At least you get to be dead, I wasn’t so lucky, was I? Nooo-ooh, I have to ‘atone for my crimes’ and ‘serve my purpose to the Time Lords’ or some shit!” He was shouting now. “Why didn’t you fucking kill me? No, of course this has to be the long game for you!” He didn’t know who he was even shouting at anymore. The Master just watched his ranting quietly.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course everyone had to die but me! Of course I had to live with it! I should have bloody stopped the regeneration, should’ve had someone shoot me while I was doing it, shoulda…”</p><p>He trailed off, mumbling incoherent nonsense as he took another long sip of bourbon, and another, and another, until he was left glaring at the empty bottle.</p><p> </p><p>“...god <em>fucking</em> <em><strong>DA</strong><strong>MMIT</strong><strong>!</strong><strong>” </strong></em></p><p>In a sudden burst of new rage, he threw the bottle as hard as he could through the hallucination of the Master in front of him. It flew right through him, as expected, and shattered with a loud crash on the wall behind.</p><p> </p><p>The Master still did not say anything more, instead only looking at the Doctor with cold disappointment.</p><p> </p><p>The Doctor held his head in his hands, and sobbed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the realization that you're not quite as mad as you first thought</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>The Doctor barely looked at him. “Stop coming back,” he said, annoyed. “I’m tired of you invading my mind.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <i>“If I am a hallucination, do you think telling me to simply ‘go away’ would help you?” </i>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Drinking, indulging, other unhealthy behaviors, a self deprecating cycle that the Doctor had trapped himself within. The fact that he couldn’t shake the sound of his old friend’s voice out of his blasted mind made it all the worse, reminding him over and over how much of a fool he was to have loved him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sat in the bathtub, staring blankly into space. The water had long since gone cold, but he didn’t have the heart to get up or do anything about it. Then, like he always did, the half-present form of the Master appeared in the doorframe, looking disdainfully at the Doctor once again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor barely looked at him. “Stop coming back,” he said, annoyed. “I’m tired of you invading my mind.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If I am a hallucination, do you think telling me to simply ‘go away’ would help you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t care. Fuck off.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Master started to chuckle at that, and it shortly turned into full blown laughter. The Doctor glared at him like he had killed a thousand worlds. “Stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” he said, icy cold hatred in his tone. The Master did not stop, pausing only briefly enough to speak through his laughter.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t really blame </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can you? I mean, look at you! Wallowing in cold water, barely taking care of yourself because you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh so heartbroken</span>
  </em>
  <span> about your ‘dearest friend’,” The humor gradually leaked out of the Master’s voice. “You think I enjoy this? Enjoy watching you destroy yourself over something so pitiful? Yes yes, you’re the one who killed me,” he paused, stepping closer to the Doctor.  “Now</span>
  <b> GET OVER IT</b>
  <span>!” he shouted.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor had pressed himself against the back of the tub as far away from the Master as possible. He couldn’t find anything to say in response to that, no argument or comment or anything that seemed appropriate. He was frozen. The Master continued to scold him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t the second Great War,” he hissed. “This is just you. Get it through your thick fucking skull that I’m here, and I’m not a figment of your sad little mind!” The Master was now hovering right over the Doctor’s face, his expression contorted in rage. The Doctor anxiously reached up to try and touch his friend’s face, but his hand only went through air. “...you can’t be, I saw you- I watched you die.” he whispered, his voice hoarse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stuck on your antiquated mess of a TARDIS. If you care so bloody much about me, maybe you’d do something about it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With that, the Master disappeared, his final comment echoing in the Doctor’s mind. He touched his own face, checking if he too, was still real.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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